The Rangeland Avenger

  30

  As Arizona had predicted, Sheriff Kern was greatly tempted not to starton the hard ride for the mountains before morning, and finally hefollowed his impulse. With the first break of the dawn he was up, and afew minutes later he had taken the trail alone. There was no need ofnumbers, for that matter, to tell a single man that he no longer needdread the law. But it was only common decency to inform him of thecharge, and Kern was a decent sort.

  He was thoughtful on the trail. A great many things had happened toupset the sheriff. The capture of Sinclair, take it all in all, was animportant event. To be sure, the chief glory was attributable to thecunning of Arizona; nevertheless, the community was sure to pay homageto the skill of the sheriff who had led the party and managed thecapture.

  But now the sheriff found himself regretting the capture and all itsattendant glory. Not even a personal grudge against the man who hadtaken his first prisoner from him, could give an edge to the sheriff'ssatisfaction, for, during the late hours of the preceding night he hadheard from Sinclair the true story of the killing of Quade; not amurder, but a fair fight. And he had heard more--the whole unhappy talewhich began with the death of Hal Sinclair in the desert, a story whichnow included, so far as the sheriff knew, three deaths, with a promiseof another in the future.

  It was little wonder that he was disturbed. His philosophy was of thekind that is built up in a country of horses, hard riding, hard work,hard fighting. According to the precepts of that philosophy, Sinclairwould have shirked a vital moral duty had he failed to avenge thepitiful death of his brother.

  The sheriff put himself into the boots of the man who was now hisprisoner and facing a sentence of death. In that man's place he knewthat he would have taken the same course. It was a matter of necessaryprinciple; and the sheriff also knew that no jury in the country couldallow Sinclair to go free. It might not be the death sentence, but itwould certainly be a prison term as bad as death.

  These thoughts consumed the time for the sheriff until his horse hadlabored up the height, and he came to the little plateau where so muchhad happened outside of his ken. And there he saw Bill Sandersen, withthe all-seeing sun on his dead eyes.

  For a moment the sheriff could not believe what he saw. Sandersen was,in the phrase of the land, "Sinclair's meat." It suddenly seemed to himthat Sinclair must have broken from jail and done this killing duringthe night. But a moment's reflection assured him that this could notbe. The mind of the sheriff whirled. Not Sinclair, certainly. The manhad been dead for some hours. In the sky, far above and to the north,there were certain black specks, moving in great circles that driftedgradually south. The buzzards were already coming to the dead. Hewatched them for a moment, with the sinking of the heart which alwayscomes to the man of the mountain desert when he sees those grim birds.

  It was not Sinclair. But who, then?

  He examined the body and the wound. It was a center shot, nicelyplaced. Certainly not the sort of shot that Cold Feet, according to thedescription which Sinclair had given of the latter's marksmanship,would be apt to make. But there was no other conclusion to come to.Cold Feet had certainly been here according to Sinclair's confession,and it was certainly reasonable to suppose that Cold Feet had committedthis crime. The sheriff placed the hat of Sinclair over his face andswung back into his saddle; he must hurry back to Sour Creek and sendup a burial party, for no one would have an interest in interring thebody in the town.

  But once in the saddle he paused again. The thought of theschoolteacher having killed so formidable a fighter as Sandersen stuckin his mind as a thing too contrary to probability. Moreover thesheriff had grown extremely cautious. He had made one great failurevery recently--the escape of this same Cold Feet. He would have failedagain had it not been for Arizona. He shuddered at the thought of howhis reputation would have been ruined had he gone on the trail andallowed Sinclair to double back to Sour Creek and take the town bysurprise.

  Dismounting, he threw his reins and went back to review the scene ofthe killing. There were plenty of tracks around the place. The gravelobscured a great part of the marks, and still other prints were blurredby the dead grass. But there were pockets of rich, loamy soil, moistenough and firm enough to take an impression as clearly as paper takesink. The sheriff removed the right shoe from the foot of Sandersen andmade a series of fresh prints.

  They were quite distinctive. The heel was turned out to such an extentthat the track was always a narrow indentation, where the heel fell onthe soft soil. He identified the same tracks in many places, and,dismissing the other tracks, the sheriff proceeded to make up a trailhistory for Sandersen.

  Here he came up the hill, on foot. Here he paused beside the embers ofthe fire and remained standing for a long time, for the marks wereworked in deeply. After a time the trail went--he followed it withdifficulty over the hard-packed gravel--up the side of the hill to asemicircular arrangement of rocks, and there, distinct in the soil, wasthe impression of the body, where the cowpuncher had lain down. Thesheriff lay down in turn, and at once he was sure why Sandersen hadchosen this spot. He was defended perfectly on three sides frombullets, and in the meantime, through crevices in the rock, hemaintained a clear outlook over the whole side of the hill.

  Obviously Sandersen had lain down to keep watch. For what? For ColdFeet, of course, on whose head a price rested. Or, at least, soSinclair must have believed at the time. The news had not yet beenpublished abroad that Cold Feet had been exculpated by the confessionof Sinclair to the killing of Quade.

  So much was clear. But presently Sandersen had risen and gone down thehill again, leaving from the other side of the rock. Had he coveredCold Feet when the latter returned to his camp, having been absent whenSandersen first arrived? No, the tracks down the hill were leisurely,not the long strides which a man would make to get close to one whom hehad covered with a revolver from a distance.

  Reaching the shoulder of the mountain, Kern puzzled anew. He began afresh study of the tracks. Those of Cold Feet were instantly known bythe tiny size of the marks of the soles. The sheriff remembered that hehad often wondered at the smallness of the schoolteacher's feet. ColdFeet was there, and Sandersen was dead. Again it seemed certain thatCold Feet had been guilty of the crime, but the sheriff kept onsystematically hunting for new evidence. He found no third set oftracks for some time, but when he did find them, they were veryclear--a short, broad foot, the imprint of a heavy man. A fat man,then, no doubt. From the length of the footprint it was very doubtfulif the man were tall, and certainly by the clearness of theindentation, the man was heavy. The sheriff could tell by making atrack beside that of the quarry.

  A second possibility, therefore, had entered, and the sheriff felt areasonable conviction that this must be the guilty man.

  Now he combed the whole area for some means of identifying the thirdman who had been on the mountainside. But nothing had been droppedexcept a brilliant bandanna, wadded compactly together, which thesheriff recognized as belonging to Sandersen. There was only onedefinite means of recognizing the third man. Very faint in the centerof the impression made by his sole, were two crossed arrows, the signof the bootmaker.

  The sheriff shook his head. Could he examine the soles of the boots ofevery man in the vicinity of Sour Creek, even if he limited his inquiryto those who were short and stocky? And might there not be many a manwho wore the same type of boots?

  He flung himself gloomily into his saddle again, and this time heheaded straight down the trail for Sour Creek.

  At the hotel he was surrounded by an excited knot of people who wishedto know how he had extracted the amazing confession from RileySinclair. The sheriff tore himself away from a dozen hands who wishedto buttonhole him in close conversation.

  "I'll tell you gents this," he said. "Quade was killed because heneeded killing, and Sinclair confessed because he's straight."

  With that, casting an ugly glance at the lot of them, he went back intothe kitchen and demanded a cup of coffee. The Chinese cook obey
ed theorder in a hurry, highly flattered and not a little nervous at thepresence of the great man in the kitchen.

  While Kern was there, Arizona entered. The sheriff greeted himcheerfully, with his coffee cup balanced in one hand.

  "Arizona," he said, "or Dago, or whatever you like to be called--"

  "Cut the Dago part, will you?" demanded Arizona. "I ain't no wayswishing to be reminded of that name. Nobody calls me that."

  Kern grinned covertly.

  "I s'pose," said Arizona slowly, "that you and Sinclair had a long yarnabout when he knew me some time back?"

  The sheriff shook his head.

  "Between you and me," he said frankly, "it sounded to me like Sinclairknew something you mightn't want to have noised around. Is thatstraight?"

  "I'll tell you," answered the other. "When I was a kid I was a foolkid. That's all it amounts to."

  Sheriff Kern grunted. "All right, Arizona, I ain't asking. But you canlay to it that Sinclair won't talk. He's as straight as ever I seen!"

  "Maybe," said Arizona, "but he's slippery. And I got this to say: Lemmehave the watch over Sinclair while he's in Sour Creek, or are youtaking him back to Woodville today?"

  "I'm held over," said the sheriff.

  He paused. Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south haddemonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles. Thesheriff was prone to unravel the new mystery by himself, if he might.

  "By what?"

  "Oh, by something I'll tell you about later on," said the sheriff. "Itdon't amount to much, but I want to look into it."

  Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen. It wouldbe simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek.

  "About you and Sinclair," went on the sheriff, "there ain't much goodfeeling between you, eh?"

  "I won't shoot him in the back if I guard him," declared Arizona. "Butif you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red onit."

  "He's too young. Sinclair's get him off guard by talking."

  "Then try Wood."

  "Wood ain't at his best off the trail. Come to think about it, I'drather trust Sinclair to you--that is, if you make up your mind totreat him square."

  "Sheriff, I'll give him a squarer deal than you think."

  Kern nodded.

  "More coffee, Li!" he called.

  Li obeyed with such haste that he overbrimmed the cup, and some of theliquid washed out of the saucer onto the floor.

  "Coming back to shop talk," went on the sheriff, as Li mopped up thespilled coffee, mumbling excuses, "I ain't had a real chance to tellyou what a fine job you done for us last night, Arizona."

  Arizona, with due modesty, waved the praise away and stepped to thecontainer of matches hanging beside the stove. He came back lighting acigarette and contentedly puffed out a great cloud.

  "Forget all that, sheriff, will you?"

  "Not if I live to be a hundred," answered the sheriff with frankadmiration.

  So saying, his eye dropped to the floor and remained there, riveted.The foot of Arizona had rested on the spot where the coffee had fallen.The print was clearly marked with dust, except that in the center,where the sole had lain, there was a sharply defined pair of crossedarrows!

  A short, fat, heavy man.

  The sheriff raised his glance and examined the bulky shoulders of theman. Then he hastily swallowed the rest of his coffee.

  Yet there might be a dozen other short, stocky men in town, whose bootshad the same impression. He looked thoughtfully out the kitchen window,striving to remember some clue. But, as far as he could make out, theonly time Arizona and Sandersen had crossed had been when the latterapplied for a place on the posse. Surely a small thing to make a mancommit a murder!

  "If you gimme the job of guarding Sinclair," said Arizona, "I'd sure--"

  "Wait a minute," cut in the sheriff. "I'll be back right away. I thinkthat was MacKenzie who went into the stable. Don't leave till I comeback, Arizona."

  Hurriedly he went out. There was no MacKenzie in the stable, and thesheriff did not look for one. He went straight to Arizona's horse. Theroan was perfectly dry, but examining the hide, the sheriff saw thatthe horse had been recently groomed, and a thorough grooming would soondry the hair and remove all traces of a long ride.

  Stepping back to the peg from which the saddle hung, he raised thestirrup leather. On the inside, where the leather had chafed the sideof the horse, there was a dirty gray coating, the accumulation of thedust and sweat of many a ride. But it was soft with recent sweat, andalong the edges of the leather there was a barely dried line of foamthat rubbed away readily under the touch of his fingertip.

  Next he examined the bridle. There, also, were similar evidences ofrecent riding. The sheriff returned calmly to the kitchen of the hotel.

  "And your mind's made up?" asked Arizona.

  "Yes," said the sheriff. "You go in with Sinclair."

  "Go _in_ with him?" asked Arizona, baffled.

  "For murder," said the sheriff. "Stick up your hands, Arizona!"